The electric city lights
by 163cm
Summary: Arthur Kirkland decides to die. Matthew Williams thinks there is another way out. But this one is probably much, much worse. (dysfunctional!RusUK, impossible?USUK, light Franada)
1. Prologue

**Author:** 163cm (A.K.A. _Oh,Yeah_)

**Fandom:** Axis Powers Hetalia

**Pairing(s)/Character(s):** Ivan Braginski/Arthur Kirkland (dysfunctional!**RusUK**), Alfred F. Jones/Arthur Kirkland (impossible?**USUK**), Francis Bonnefoy/Matthew Williams (**Franada**), Kiku Honda, Ludwig Beilschmidt

**Disclaimer:** _Hetalia_, nor any of its characters for that matter, belong to me, even if I wish for it so much it hurts. I'm only responsible for the plot, the mind-bending effort that comes from typing and typing until the somewhat acceptable words come out and the unbelievable awful and pityful attempts at deep toughts and clever puns I'm known to once in a while go for . Asides from that, everything belongs to **Hidekaz Himaruya**.

**Summary:** Arthur Kirkland decides to die. Matthew Williams thinks there is another way out. But this one is probably much, much worse.

**Rating:** _M_ (as in, +18)

**Genres:** _Angst_, _Romance_ -ish-. **_AU_**.

**Warnings:** _Torture_, _Violence_, _Gore_, _Character death_?, _Language_, _Lemon_, _Dub-con_.

**Author notes:** Huh, hi. This is the first story I've ever translated into English. I'm sure you've noticed -and if you haven't you eventually will- but English is not my native tongue. I don't even live in the United States, or really close to them, and I have no American friends to turn to for wording and grammar advice. So I just hope this makes enough sense for everybody to actually get something out of it.

Well, before you start thinking of giving me a chance, I feel I must warn you about the contents of this particular fanfiction. For starters: it will be dark. _Pretty dark_. **_Seriously_**. From the very summary you get that there will be constant mentions of suicide, a lot of attempts and a number of actual successful ones -you'll get to understand how is that even possible-. There will be some awfully explicit gore scenes too.

About the main pairing, which is **RusUK** (or **RusEng**, which seems to be a much more popular way of addressing it), it will not be a happy one. Maybe because Arthur doesn't even think of them as a couple, but mostly because Ivan is only looking for someone to play with. There is no real love in between and so a lot of feelings are hurt. Arthur's feelings, at that.

There's also the apparently impossible **USUK**. You'll understand in a few chapters. Actually, you probably won't get what the hell is going on until a lot more into the story, and so I will not despair if there is little to no interest in this fic for the first half of it. But I promise you, this _will_ be interesting. At least, that's what all my acquaintances say when I tell them about the whole idea.

Well, now that I've given you a complete essay about why you should -or maybe _shouldn't_- start reading, I bid myself goodbye. I'll let you alone to decide whether or not you'll immerse yourself into the story, and if you do, then I can only wish you a happy reading time.

* * *

**The electric city lights**

**Prologue**

"You know, a friend of mine is working on this new project," Matthew calmly spoke, his voice a soft, rhythmic, _relaxed_ sigh. Subtly, he approached, finally stepping away from the door frame, where he had remained painfully still for the longest of times, his face betraying no expression. The door was gently closed, the latch barely exhaling a fair 'click' as the Canadian took a couple of steps forward with apparent lull.

Arthur was mildly surprised. He would have definitely expected a much more... _explosive_... response to the situation. Not that he had _wanted_ this situation at all, no. In fact, he had patiently awaited for all his roommates to go out -which, by the way, had not been easy in the least, what with them worried sick about him doing something of the sort, of _this_ sort- in order of finally 'doing the deed', precisely in hopes of avoiding _this situation_. How could he have _known_, ironies of life, that Matthew had forgotten his 'Lehninger principles of biochemistry' reprint? How could he have _guessed_ that it was of severe importance, as precisely that day he had study session? How could he have _remembered_, in a moment when nothing really mattered anymore, that the Canadian could have very well been a ninja, as he practically went unnoticed? There was no way, and thus he didn't know and didn't guess, much less remembered.

"It's quite interesting, really. I believe you would like it," Matthew went on, violet eyes casually analyzing the little yellow note he playfully slipped through his fingers. _Ah_. Of course. Well, if that petty post-it did not spoke about what had been just about to happen, the loaded gun that was now pretty much engulfed in Arthur's hot, wet cavern surely gave him a clue. "Have you ever heard of virtual reality?"

The question did took him by surprise, honestly, even after the initial shock the peculiar response -_or lack thereof_- of his friend had caused. His thick eyebrows went up and the emerald orbs widened slightly. The revolver still in his mouth, he shook his head once. Matthew looked pointedly at him, a tiny, incredibly sad smile on his lips, but his eyes were glazed with no less than _complete_ understanding. _Sympathy_. Arthur averted his gaze before tightly closing his eyes, embarrassed.

Oh, yeah, leave it to Matthew to be _bloody saint_, will you? Leave it to Matthew to empathize with your feelings and put them before his own, leave it to Matthew to make you feel like shit _without even knowing_.

He opened his eyes and swallowed hard, the metal cylinder on his mouth and the bile going up his throat making that simple action ten times as painful. He tried, his hands shaking madly, to put away the cannon, _get it out_, but found out he couldn't. His desire, his _true wish_ was so deep and strong that his body couldn't -_didn't want to_- betray it and, every once in a while, his index fingers twitched ever so slightly against the trigger, so close, _so very close_ of actually putting an end to everything.

But he wouldn't, of course he wouldn't. Not in front of Matthew.

"This friend," the boy continued, his eyes going down to the brief note on his hand. It was short and roundabout, pretty much like the man who wrote it, he thought with little humor. "Kiku, is his name. He and I go to the same university, see? He's actually working on his doctorate, though. On virtual reality. Interesting, eh?" the smile that was sent his way had a tiny, almost undetectable trail of mischief. He was immediately reminded of _someone_ else. His hands trembled uncontrollably.

'_Why_?', Arthur's eyes demanded. _Why are you telling me this_, _why are you_ doing _this to me_. Matthew's smile notably fell, yet weakly remained.

"He works for a company. Truthfully, I'm not quite sure what they mainly do, but he told me about this project... it's a virtual world," he said, his voice cracking a bit at the last part. Other than that, he remained expressionless as he approached the quivery form of the Briton with composed, mute steps. "It's a _real_ virtual world," he shakily whispered, gently placing his hands on Arthur's and pulling them towards himself, slowly removing the machine from inside the Brit's mouth. A thick layer of saliva binded his tongue to the tip of the gun until, finally, it was far enough, thrown away almost in rage by the formerly serene Canadian. The firearm landed on the other side of the room, _staring_, an innocent witness to the wicked scene. "I-it's a v-virtual world," he sobbed, embracing him with almost inhuman strenght. "_I-it can s-sa-v-ve y-you_!"

Arthur remained still against the other, _enfolded_, tightened so hard breathing seemed close to impossible, hot, wet tears of despair staining his shoulder and neck. Matthew brokenly shook his head again and again, as if that could actually force away his problems, his _pain_, sobs rapidly ascending to screams, genuine _mourning_, and all Arthur could think of was how much he regretted not locking the door.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Welp. Yeah. I'm... sorry?... it was so short, but meh, it's merely the prologue and also my beginnings are frequently quite short. There's more to come, sure, but I don't wanna compromise and say it will be coming soon, seeing as I first have to write it in Spanish and then translate it to English. It may take some time, but let me assure it _will_ continue.


	2. Turn off

**Author's notes:** Uwaah! Okay, maybe I _did_ continue sooner than expected. I just wasn't hoping to get any response at all! I'm truthfully really happy! I have to say: writing in Spanish to _then_ translate into English has to be my_ bestest_ idea ever! If only you _knew_. This chapter was very different in the Spanish sketch. Like, _wow_, really, _really_ different. But then, as I went through it again while translating, I could really go and say 'huh, that doesn't seem alright' and 'hey! This would be better this way!' And it wasn't tiring at all, even though I was basically rewriting the whole thing! Oh, oh god, this... this, I **love** this.

Also, for my _first and only_ review I have a lot to say.

**Dear anon**. Firstly: I'm sorry it took me so long to finally get how to approve your comment! Really, I thought they were automatically published. But well, I found out how to do it before the 30 or so hours they give me to validate -then they delete them!_ How dare they_! Secondly: Thank you a **very big lot** for your opinions and advice! I apologize if you find my writing too descriptive. I actually didn't think of that part as _smutty_ or anything of the sort and frequently do narrations in that manner, I just... well, you know... the mouth _is_ wet and hot. Maybe I've been turning on people without knowing! But I thank you **loads** for pointing it out to me. I'm really, really appreciative towards reviews that actually help me grow. Kisses and hugs!

And so, enjoy!

* * *

**I. Turn off**

There was a soft knock. Knuckles against door, he recalled, but the sound that came out was faint and brief. He almost thought he hadn't heard a thing. His posture unconsciously straightened, perception sharpening lightly and eyes narrowing just a little, but all that came after was a sizable long silence, and so he shrugged it off and went back to his reading.

"Arthur-san," ah, _there_ it was. A deep but gentle voice, _soothing_, even when distorted by the mahogany separation. Obscured green orbs reluctantly removed themselves from the page -the very first one, too- he intended to enjoy.

'_The premature burial_', read the title, and he had caught himself reading and rereading those mere three words with morbid fascination. He warily eyed the door. "Hm." The portal opened, revealing the small form of the man who took the distant hum as an invitation to let himself in.

He quickly veiled himself with a tiny smile, _forged_ and inadvertently _consumed_. Kiku Honda, the Japanese man who was currently working for the Braginski corporation -on the _Siti_ project, specifically-, was quietly crossing through the entry. He wore his white lab coat -big and long enough to make him seem much smaller-, yet Arthur knew he wasn't there on business matters. Kiku was responsible of performing the physical _and_ psychological tests on the applicants. He had abundant knowledge on the subjects -and really, the Brit suspected there was little close to _nothing_ that the Japanese _didn't_ know to detail-, and so they had shared a lot of conversations over the course of the months of his observatory stay. Forcing small talk in between professional interviews and physical evaluations granted them a very placid friendship, which only grew with the day. Now, the smaller man pressed on visiting on a nearly daily basis in an attempt lure him _out_ of getting in the project.

"How are you today?" the raven politely asked. Always _polite_, always. His lips curved on a small smile as he carefully closed the door. This was getting awfully familiar, _wasn't_ it? Arthur shook his head in hopes of getting himself together, and responded with a tender expression that came out as false as his words.

"Brilliant. How about you, Kiku..._san_?"

"Likewise," the Japanese confirmed, a soft sigh slipping through his smiling lips as he gave up trying to convince the Briton. He had already explained -and not just a couple of times, truthfully- that denial did _not_ lessen his grief, much less _concealed_ it to external eyes. At best, it brought it _out_. "Arthur-san, can we talk?" emerald eyes landed on brown ones. They both seemed tired. They both had very different reasons.

"I thought that's what we were doing?" he joked -he _joked_, right? Was that a joke? Was it _sarcasm_? The mere concept was starting to become _foreign_ to him-. He knew quite well what his friend was going to say, and he was also sure it would be pointless. It didn't matter, _wouldn't_ matter how many times he was told not to, he _would_ do it. By now, the other most likely was aware of this too. The Japanese was quiet for a while, then he spoke, an absolutely serious look on his face.

"Are you sure about this?"

Arthur gazed down.

* * *

He always had beautiful eyes, that's what his mother said. Wide, almond-shaped emerald eyes, _deep_ as a forest, _sparkling_, overflowing with wit and perceptiveness and _life_. Now, well, his eyes were still green, see? They were still deep -_a deep sorrow_, the words made an echo in his head- but they sparkled _no longer_, and they lived _no longer_. Nothing within himself did anymore.

His skin had always been delightfully pale, at least that's what his friends used to say. It definitely had its downsides, such as not being able to stay too much under the sun unless he had a wish of ending up like a _lobster_, or the fact that bumps, even the softer ones, undoubtedly left flagrant _bruises_. Well, he was still pale. _Deathly_ pale. And he didn't have to worry about _sunburn_ anymore because he was not going out, _ever_. And there were _bruises_ under his eyes, only these were not a response to something _physical_.

And his mind, oh, _his mind_, it had always been so imaginative, so _creative_. Soul of a poet, he used to whisper to himself. Soul and _mind_ of a poet, indeed. He thrived on creating stories. Stories of _pirates_, stories of _knights_, stories of _magical beasts_... sometimes, stories of all of those and _more_, mixed together. And now... and now, all his mind could entreat were _violent_ scenes, horrible, _gory_ scenes, scenes of _death_. Of _his_ death.

When Kiku started the exams, it didn't took him long to find out the one, single problem: depression. Severe. _Worryingly so_.

The corporation rules stated that any aspirant had to come out as healthy in _every and all_ of the medical tests in order of becoming a _Siti_ official citizen. But Kiku would give thumbs up if he asked him to -he knew, he _would_- and Ludwig, who just so happened to be the _operating chief_ of the project, trusted the Japanese entirely and blindly, and so would approve of his notion without double checking.

"_You don't have to do this, we could get you help,_" had said the Japanese, a light but distinct _plea_ in his voice. Arthur had simply shook his head, his already strained smile turning into a pained grimace.

"_No, I have to_._ You know what the_ other _way is_."

"_Arthur-san_..." and his eyes. Oh, his eyes were _really_ distressed. And had he been _okay_ -just _enough_ so-, he would have desisted, surely, and would have _agreed_ and he _wouldn't_ do it. But he _wasn't_, and he _would_. "_Arthur-san, as I have explained to you, we are not completely sure your conscience of this world will cease to exist,_" Kiku spoke, his voice slightly disturbed, and he had not know him for much, some months -two? Three, at best-, but nonetheless he understood the _outrageousness_ of it. "_I cannot speak the details, but you will not be the first prototype in the city_. _Results have not always been_... optimum."

"_But you're not sure_._ It_ could _work, right_?"

"_And it could_ not."

And it could very well _not_...

* * *

"How have you been?" Matthew inquired politely. Polite, _always_ polite, _aren't you_. Arthur's response was a hearty smile. Matthew thought he seemed about to cry.

"Brilliant," he spoke, and his voice came out husky and gravelly. _Broken_. "What about you, Matthew?"

"Ah, quite well, yes. I'm going back to campus in a few days. It's amazing, really, to think I'll be starting my _last_ semester. I didn't think I'll get pass the second!" he laughed, nervously, unknowingly playing with one of the paws of his polar bear plushie. Arthur noticed with a sharp pang. Matthew had already _stopped_. Matthew had already _grown out_ of it. The bear only came back when he was troubled. _Painfully_. '_Of course, he caught you_ swallowing _a bloody gun, what did you expect_? _For him to shrug it off with the next plate of pancakes_?' There was a knot on his throat, a damn _burning_ one, and his lips trembled lightly when he tried to gulp it down. "Arthur? A-are you okay?" concern, _despicable_ concern. Arthur coerced a bigger, more hollow grin.

"Yeah, sorry, lad! I'm a little off," and he even forced out a laugh. It sounded like he was choking. He abruptly shut up. Silence attacked once again, trapping them, _surrounding them_, turning the air dense and awkward in the small room. Arthur gazed down. Matthew bit his lip. "So... uh... the frog... is he, uh, coming?" he tested.

"Ah! Yes, yes, he _is_ coming. I don't think it'll take him long to get here, really, his shift just ended, you see? He's the main chef of this _frou-frou_ French restaurant, did you know? '_Le Jardin d'Amour_', the name is _really_ cheesy, but the food is great! Although, who am I to say that when the main chef _is_ my boyfriend, right?" the Canadian spoke speedily, and he seemed uncomfortable, and _of course_ he was. Not because of his relationship with the French, that would be downright _ridiculous_. They had been lovers since, what? A year? No, probably two. He wasn't one to remember dates, not like _Francis_, anyway. And not because of Francis and Arthur's relationship either, _at all_. Because ever since the Briton had become like this -like... like _dead_-, the French had stopped his teasing and his petty insults and was now in fact compassionate towards him, _compassionate_, because he was genuinely _worried_ for his childhood frienemy. So no, that wasn't a topic of concern in one bit. What had him uneasy was...

"Right, right... and, um... and _Alfred_?"

And there it was. _The question_. Barely an exhalation, almost a muted thought and yet so very, _very_ clear. Matthew visibly shrunk.

"_Arthur_... you know he's _not_," he breathed back. It pained him to say it, how it _pained_ him, but the Brit's reaction told him that hearing it was much, much worse.

* * *

He wasn't weak, and _really_, he wasn't. Actually, he deemed necessary to clarify that he was, in fact, beyond strong.

He cried. He did it frequently, too. As a child, his schoolmates, _Francis_, specially his _brothers_ mocked him for how much he cried. Of course, nobody found any significance in the fact that he only ever cried because _they_ were mocking him, rather harshly at that. And nobody found important to admit that, yes, he cried, but he also _stood up_ for himself. It was probably easier to keep on laughing at his tears than acknowledge the fact that the 'sniveling midget' had knocked off their breaths with a forceful headbutt. He would then go home and would not be harassed for the rest of the day. But the next one? The next one was full of '_sniveling midget went home crying like a girl_'. You went home with a few bruised ribs, he wanted to say.

He was a romantic. He had tried to keep it out of view, but that was something everyone seemed to _find out_ somehow. But that did _not_ mean, not in any way, that he let himself be _controlled_ by his emotions. He took painful decisions more often than not, decisions that truthfully _hurt_ him, decisions taken _cold-headed_ even when his heart was _burning_. And still, it was the most comfortable thing for everyone to assume he was nothing but a softie simply because, _once in a while_, he thought of the past and felt nostalgic. _Once in a while_, he gave in when someone played with his heartstrings. Once in a while, he fell in real, _true love_.

He had fears. Everyone has them, _right_? Fear of _water_. Great amounts of it, specifically. A mass of it big enough to _sink him_ down, drag him to the very bottom. _Drown him_. Fear of _abandonment_. Fear of _loneliness_. They were all justified, they all had a _reason_ behind. He had been _drowned_ before. He had been _abandoned_, and he knew what it was like to be _lonely_. It wouldn't make a difference if he came out and excused them, his _fears_, because it was _piss-easy_ for everyone to tell him to 'man up'. Fear of _water_? That's just _pathetic_. _Abandonment, loneliness_? Life sucks, kid, get used to it.

He wasn't weak, in any case.

At least, he didn't _use_ to be.

You know how they say, '_you don't know what you have until you lose it_'? '_Everything can change in the blink of an eye_'? '_Nothing lasts forever_', and '_be careful what you wish for_'? He knew, _Arthur_ knew.

And, if _he_ could see him at the moment from wherever he was, maybe from the depths of his cold, dank grave, _Alfred_ would know it too.

* * *

'_That silly beeping sound is actually quite comforting_'. The thought surprised Arthur and he couldn't help but smile at the irony. For everyone else it came off as a wince. At his right, the tall, broad blond -_Ludwig_, was it?- was taking in the images of his inner organs at the screens -was... was that his _bladder_? Huh, he didn't feel like taking a piss _now_- with blank expression. He made a few annotations on his chart, then went back to observation mode.

The nurse at his left was holding his wrist, checking his pulse, most likely, as she mentally compared the results to the rhythmic ups and downs that danced on the heart monitor. Was that _really_ necessary? Kiku was also there, in the testing room. He was on the farthest point though, on one of the corners, in front of the monstrously huge computer he was currently typing weird, complex codes in with astonishing skill.

"Mister Kirkland," directed the tall, blond man -_Ludwig_, yes-, his voice manly and remarkably professional. He was holding a little, beeping artifact in his left hand. "I will now explain the purpose of _these_." Arthur nodded as best as he could. With the brain monitor attached to his head and doing its work, movement was more than a little awkward. "When the time comes, you will be placed on a characterization capsule. It will be strange, but there will be nothing to be afraid of. A variety of monitors -these-, for every bodily process will be applied, comparable to the ones you are already familiar with," he explained, pointing vaguely in his general direction. "This is simply in order of having full knowledge of the exact moment the process is completed."

Kiku threw them an uneasy glance, although, being firmly secured to the stretcher and with little mobility of his neck, Arthur couldn't really appreciate it. "Ludwig-san, I think it would be proper to _explain_ the whole process to him now..." the German seemed to consider this for a moment.

"No, I do not deem it necessary at the moment. He needs to acclimatize first."

Kiku seemed mortified with the response, but didn't pry any further.

* * *

**Author's notes:** thanks a lot to all of those **lovely** users who started following my story. It'll only get better from this point on. Also, there will be a lot more of explaining in the next chapter, so please don't despair. See ya!


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